“A Scavantis MegaBuilding is more than a workplace; it is a complete habitat. Within these walls, one may work, train, dine, rest, and grow; all under one unified system.”

  — Scavantis Employee Orientation Guide

  After dropping Comma at her school’s gates, and enduring her final reminder that I was a ‘weird cousin’, I caught the train to Tago’s East Corporate District, and the contrast hit like a slap.

  Gone were the polished sidewalks and biosculpted trees of Central. Here, the streets were cracked permacrete stained with decades of industrial runoff. Neon signs flickered overhead in competing colors: acid green, electric blue, and that shade of pink that only existed in advertisements.

  Which were, as always, everywhere, half of them were broken, strobing like dying heartbeats.

  Synth-smoke curled from vendor stalls wedged between buildings, selling fried protein sticks and mystery drinks in cups that probably violated three health codes… if there were any. Would not count on it in Tago. The air tasted of cooking oil, thick enough to coat the back of my throat.

  People moved differently here. Faster, with eyes down. At this hour, very few wore corp-casual or smart-fabric blazers. Just work gear, scuffed armor, the clothes that could take a beating and keep going.

  I fit right in.

  My armor drew a few glances, but not the who’s this cosplayer looks I’d get in Central. Here it was more “wonder what he’s hunting” followed by immediate disinterest, because everyone had their own problems.

  The holoband on my wrist dug into my gauntlet joint, pinching with every movement. I’d tried wearing it over the armor, but it looked ridiculous and kept catching on the edge of my pauldron. After the third time it nearly ripped itself off, I gave up and shoved the thing into my pocket.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I muttered, patting the pocket. “But if I lose this thing to a badly designed gauntlet joint, you can blame TitanWard choices, not me.”

  Ahead, rising like a monument to efficiency over aesthetics, stood SMB11.

  Scavantis MegaBuilding 11.

  The plaque was bolted to the entrance in a standard corporate font that screamed we spent exactly the minimum budget on this.

  Below it, a few more with smaller text, including the one I was interested in: Tago Branch Office & Training Facility.

  I stopped and stared up at the structure. Over a hundred floors of gray-and-steel brutalism, windows tinted dark enough that you couldn’t tell if anyone was inside or if the whole thing was empty. NEON strips ran up the corners, pulsing in Scavantis’s signature orange, the only color on the entire building that suggested it belonged to a living company and not a decommissioned prison.

  “SMB11,” I said aloud, shaking my head. “Their only MegaBuilding in Tago, and they still numbered it eleven.”

  Probably some corporate policy. “All Scavantis facilities must follow standard designation protocols regardless of regional context.” Heaven forbid someone got confused and thought this was Scavantis MegaBuilding 1. That might imply importance.

  Or logic.

  I squared my shoulders and walked toward the entrance. The doors slid open with a hydraulic hiss, and I stepped inside.

  The interior was somehow worse.

  If the outside was brutalist efficiency, the inside was bureaucratic chaos held together by flickering holo-displays and sheer stubbornness.

  The lobby stretched wide and cavernous, filled with the echo of boots on tile and the low hum of a hundred conversations happening at once. Rows of hard plastic seating lined the walls, occupied by people in various states of waiting: some in armor, some in civilian clothes, all looking equally tired.

  But it was the wall that made me stop.

  The entire left side of the lobby was covered in hundreds of holo-displays, floor to ceiling, and it was dying. Sections flickered in and out, text scrambling into gibberish before reforming, destinations scrolling past in a glitching cascade that made my eyes hurt.

  [FLOOR 3-A: CHAOS CONTAIMENT]

  [FLOOR 9-E: MEDICAL PROCESSING]

  [FLOOR 12-C: ████████]

  [FLOOR 22-A: RESOURCE APPRAISAL]

  [FLOOR 22-B: EQUIPMENT REQUISITION]

  [FLOOR 48-E: REGISTRATION OFFICE]

  [FLOOR ??-?: ER??R]

  [FLOOR 55-A: INCURSION DEBRIEF]

  [FLOOR 71-C: CAFETERIA]

  [FLOOR 72-A: BAZAAR]

  [FLOOR 106-B: Premium Housing #7]

  I squinted at the chaos, searching for the line I needed.

  There.

  [FLOOR 48-E: REGISTRATION OFFICE]

  Of course it was on the 48th floor. Why would the registration office be on, say, the ground floor where normal humans might expect it? That would be convenient, and Scavantis was many things, but convenient wasn’t one of them.

  I glanced around for directions, elevators, signs, literally anything helpful.

  Nothing.

  Well, no. That wasn’t fair. There were signs. Small, unhelpful signs pointing in contradictory directions with labels like “ELEVATORS A ??” and “ELEVATORS E ??” and my personal favorite, “ELEVATORS (OTHER) ??”

  I picked a direction at random and started walking.

  Ten minutes later, I was completely lost.

  The MegaBuilding was a maze. Corridors branched off in directions that didn’t make geometric sense, stairwells led to floors that shouldn’t exist, and the elevator I’d found had a helpful sign that read “OUT OF ORDER - USE ELEVATOR BANK F” with absolutely no indication of where Elevator Bank F was.

  I stood in a hallway that looked identical to the three hallways I’d already been down, armor clinking softly with every frustrated breath. “Okay,” I muttered. “This is fine. I’m fine. Just a little lost in a corporate labyrinth designed by someone who hated humanity.”

  A woman in Scavantis contractor gear walked past, not even glancing at me. “Excuse me—” I started. She was already gone, disappearing around a corner like I didn’t exist. “Cool. Great. Love that.”

  I pulled out the paper Mom had given me, the one with my registration details, hoping for some kind of map or instructions. Nothing.

  Just my name and a timestamp for my appointment, which I was now definitely going to be late for.

  “Fantastic.”

  I found the office with exactly one minute to spare.

  Actually found it after taking two wrong turns, an elevator that went sideways and a helpful janitor who’d pointed me toward “the blue hallway, not the other blue hallway.”

  I stumbled through the door, winded, armor rattling with every heaving breath.

  The waiting room was... waiting room-esque. Aggressive beige with a dozen plastic chairs lined the walls, designed by someone who’d heard the concept of “sitting” but had never actually tried it. Or didn’t have enough budget for better. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead with the enthusiasm of a dying insect.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Only three other people occupied the space: a woman in scuffed tactical gear scrolling through her datapad, a teen who looked barely eighteen fidgeting with his gloves, and an older man slumped in his chair like he’d been waiting since the building opened.

  I walked to the check-in terminal mounted on the wall; a battered kiosk with a cracked screen and suspicious stains on the keypad.

  A cheerful sign above it read: PLEASE ENTER YOUR REGISTRATION NUMBER

  I pulled out the paper Mom had given me and punched in the code.

  The screen flickered. Thought about it. Then displayed:

  REGISTRATION CONFIRMED

  ESTIMATED WAIT TIME: 45 MINUTES

  I stared at the screen.

  Blinked.

  Read it again.

  “Forty-five minutes?” I said aloud to no one in particular. “I had an appointment. A timed appointment. Why do they even bother putting a time on it if they’re just going to make me wait anyway?”

  The woman in tactical gear glanced up, gave me a look that said, first time? And went back to her datapad. I sighed, found the least uncomfortable-looking chair, and dropped into it. My armor clanked against the plastic and the rifle on my back pressed awkwardly into the backrest.

  This was fine. Totally fine. Just me, a waiting room, and forty-five minutes of my life I’d never get back.

  I started scrolling through Pulse? and its sister site Viewline News: Green-1 incursion cleared in the northern district, a Tago PD officer got promoted to the next rank, someone’s chaos shard exploded and took out half a residential block.

  No… that felt as if I was wasting my time, so stared at Pulse?. Erika’s profile sat at the top of my favorites, right next to Omar. She posted a photo earlier with the training room behind her.

  My thumbs hovered over the PM.

  [Me: Hey]

  I deleted it. Too casual.

  [Me: Hi Erika, hope training is going well]

  Deleted. Too formal. We weren’t writing business emails.

  [Me: Yo! How’s IC life treating you?]

  Deleted. Who says “yo”? Nobody. That’s who.

  The woman in tactical gear glanced at me, probably wondering why I was having a silent breakdown over a text message.

  I took a breath and just... typed.

  [Me: Hey, Eri! You said to contact you, so, uhm… how are you?]

  Sent before I could overthink it, and the three dots appeared immediately. My heart did something stupid in my chest.

  [Erika: DASH! I was wondering when you’d message!]

  [Erika: Training is brutal but I’m kicking ass]

  [Erika: Mentor has me running drills 6am-8pm]

  [Erika: How’s the gear holding up?]

  I stared at the messages, a grin spreading across my face despite the corpo waiting room hell.

  [Me: Gear’s good. Repaired everything after the incursion]

  [Me: Actually at Scavantis right now. Getting my real license]

  [Erika: WAIT REALLY???]

  [Erika: That’s amazing!!!]

  [Erika: No more sketchy forgeries?]

  [Me: No more sketchy forgeries]

  [Me: Mom made me promise to do this properly]

  [Erika: Your mom is SMART]

  [Erika: That fake license was gonna get you arrested eventually]

  [Me: Hey it worked didn’t it?]

  [Erika: You got LUCKY]

  [Erika: Mentor would’ve confiscated it on the spot if he wasn’t busy]

  Fair point.

  [Me: Well now it’ll be legit. Gray license and everything]

  [Erika: Gray is solid!]

  [Erika: Just be careful okay?]

  [Erika: Even with proper gear things go wrong]

  [Me: I’ll be fine. I survived your incursion didn’t I?]

  [Erika: That was different you had ME there]

  [Erika: And you almost got PANCAKED]

  I laughed out loud, earning another look from tactical gear woman.

  [Me: Fair point]

  NOW SERVING: 847

  I glanced up at the screen, then back at my holoband.

  [Me: Gotta go, they’re calling my number]

  [Me: Talk later?]

  [Erika: YES]

  [Erika: And seriously, don’t die]

  [Erika: I JUST got you back as a friend]

  Something warm settled in my chest.

  [Me: I won’t. Promise.]

  I shoved the holoband in my pocket and stood, joints protesting from sitting in corpo-chair hell, and walked toward the door that had just slid open.

  The office beyond was small, clinical, and exactly as soulless as I’d expected. A single desk dominated the space, its surface unnaturally clean except for a sleek terminal and a small fake potted plant that looked like it was regretting existing.

  Behind the desk sat a woman in her mid-forties, black hair pulled into a tight bun, wearing a business-casual outfit that screamed I have attended seventeen compliance seminars this year. Her expression was pleasant but professional, the smile of someone who’d perfected the art of bureaucratic efficiency.

  She looked up as I entered. “Welcome. What can I do for you?” She glanced at her screen. “Ah. Please have a seat.”

  I sat trying not to let my armor scrape the chair too loudly.

  “This won’t take long,” she said, her tone surprisingly warm. “I just need to verify your government license and copy the details into our system. Standard procedure.” She gestured to a small scanner embedded in the desk. “If you could place your eye here?”

  I leaned forward, lining up my face with the scanner. A brief flash of light, a soft chime, and the machine beeped its approval.

  “Perfect. Now, your ID key, please.”

  I hesitated, then pulled the holoband from my pocket and held it over the scanner. The device hummed, data streaming across the woman’s terminal in glowing lines of text.

  She frowned.

  “Hm.”

  That was not a good “hm.” That was a problem “hm.”

  “Is something wrong?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

  She tilted her head, eyes scanning the readout. “You don’t have a system listed in your government ID.” She looked up, genuinely curious. “Why not?”

  My brain went into overdrive.

  Lie. I had to lie. Because the truth… someone’s been draining my compatibility for six months and I only just got an emergency system yesterday… sounded insane even to me.

  “Oh,” I said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I didn’t fill it in. It’s optional, right? So I just... said nothing.”

  Her frown deepened. “But why?”

  I met her eyes. “Have you seen my surname?”

  She blinked, glanced back at her screen, and her expression shifted from confusion to wide-eyed realization. “Kallum? There’s only one family allowed with that name!“

  “Exactly.” I leaned back slightly, letting the implication hang in the air. “I didn’t want to give anyone at the company... unnecessary information.”

  Her face transformed. Understanding dawned like a corporate sunrise, and suddenly I wasn’t just some random kid with a license. I was a Kallum. Capital K.

  One of those families.

  She probably watched the same corpo dramas as Comma. The ones where estranged heirs fought siblings for control of multi-quadrillion sol empires, complete with dramatic betrayals and slow-motion boardroom confrontations.

  Too bad father was disinherited, and I had exactly zero claim to anything… but she didn’t need to know that.

  “Of course,” she blurted, her tone shifting to something smoother and deferential. “That makes perfect sense, Mister Kallum. Privacy is extremely important for individuals in your... position.”

  I nodded, trying to look like someone who held a position.

  She tapped at her terminal, fingers flying across the interface. “I apologize for the inconvenience. Let me just update your records and—oh.” She paused, biting her lip. “I’m afraid there’s one complication.”

  My stomach dropped. “What kind of complication?”

  “Well,” she said carefully, “Scavantis requires all licensed hunters to declare whether they have a system. It’s a regulatory requirement. For mandatory insurance purposes, you understand. And with a full system license, you have access to any chaos shards, or mine, or incursion. Up to the issued color. Please listen.” She glanced at me apologetically. “System users have levels and can upgrade their attributes with LP.”

  “Uhm, okay?” I said, trying not to sound too incredulous.

  She smiled, a little sheepish now. “Yes, Mister Kallum. I apologize...” She hesitated. “I should mention that Scavantis pays me a small bonus for every system verification I process. Even with the penalty from the system for indulging information, I’m fine with it.”

  I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

  Penalty? Bonus? What kind of Byzantine payment structure did Scavantis run where clerks got penalized for doing their jobs but also got bonuses for the same thing? Wait, she said… system penalty? Was the system actively penalizing people for saying information to no-system users… plebeians?!

  “That sounds... rough,” I said, because I genuinely had no clue how else to respond.

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Scavantis is a Sol Fortune 500, so it pays well. Not as well as your Fortune 15, but I can’t complain.”

  I nodded as if that made perfect sense and not as if my brain was scrambling to keep up.

  She turned her terminal toward me. “If you could just sign here, Mister Kallum?”

  I pressed my thumb to the scanner. It beeped. A document appeared, scrolling through legal text faster than any human could read, then flashed ACCEPTED in green. Sorry, Mom, not reading the fine print.

  She smiled and handed me a freshly printed slip of paper, still warm from the printer.

  FLOOR 2-C: CHAOS CONTAINMENT

  PRACTICAL EXAMINATION - SYSTEM USER TRACK

  I stared at it. “This is for your practical exam,” she explained. “Unless...” She paused, tilting her head. “Did you want the non-system track? That would only qualify you for a civilian incursion license, not a full Scavantis gray.”

  I weighed the options.

  Harder exam? Probably. But a civilian license meant restrictions, limited access, less pay. And if I wanted to prove to Mom, and myself, that I could actually do this... “No,” I said, folding the paper. “This is fine.”

  She nodded approvingly. “Excellent choice, Mister Kallum. Good luck with your exam.”

  “Thanks,” I said, standing. My armor clanked softly as I turned toward the door.

  “Oh, and Mister Kallum?”

  I glanced back.

  She smiled warmly. “Welcome to Scavantis.”

  I nodded, managed something that might’ve resembled a smile, and left. The door slid shut behind me, and I stood in the hallway, staring at the paper in my hand.

  System user track.

  I had a broken system that couldn’t track experience, glitched attributes, a plugin I didn’t understand, and I’d just signed up for the exam designed for people with actual, functioning systems.

  “Well,” I muttered, tucking the paper into my pocket. “Guess we’re doing this.”

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